by Vicki Grant
I just needed my hand to stop shaking enough for me to thread the needle.
I fixed the cushion, and we headed downstairs. My job was to distract Frieda (who I would never have said resembled a hyena if Eddie hadn’t pointed out the hunchy thing she did with her shoulders). I got her to look for an imaginary plaid blanket with a frayed edge while he figured out where she’d hidden Miss Cameron’s rye. Judging by the gleam in their eyes when I got back, he’d found it.
Miss Cameron blew on her so-called tea before taking a sip, and they both laughed. “So, Lucinda,” she said. “Manage to get everything straightened away?”
I looked behind me. Eddie rolled his eyes. “This is Dot, Miss Cameron.”
“Dot! Goodness, that’s nothing like Lucinda. Where’d I get the name Lucinda?”
Eddie elbowed her. “How many cups of tea have you had today?”
“Oh, you!” She looked at me now. “Beware, my dear. The Nicholson men are dangerous. This one’s every bit as bad as his father. You’ll fall in love with him if you’re not careful.”
I died.
Eddie said, “I’m not the least bit dangerous.”
“No offense, darling! I’ve always had a thing for dangerous men. Now sit, you two. Tell me the gossip. I used to know everything that went on around these parts. Now I’m like some old hermit. What have you got that’s juicy for me?”
Ten
EDDIE AND MISS Cameron yakked on about people I didn’t know—the Andersons, the Adairs, some of the cottagers and her no-good nephew, who hadn’t been back to the lake more than five times since the war. I didn’t mind. She was funny. She made me promise I’d come by someday to get my portrait painted, and then Frieda shooed us out. It was time for Miss Cameron’s medication.
Eddie borrowed Miss Cameron’s boat, and we stopped to check on one of “his” cottages. The owners were away until the end of July. I helped him with the yardwork and removing a swallow’s nest from the dryer vent. By then it was six, and we were hungry.
“I could take you back to the Arms, and you might get the last serving of Ida’s tuna casserole, or I could make you dinner at my place,” he said. “Your choice.”
“You a good cook?”
“No. But neither is Ida, and I’m cuter.”
I wobbled my hand back and forth, surprised at myself.
He ignored my attempt at humor, and we headed across the lake to his cottage. It was a beautiful, calm evening, so we decided to eat on the deck. Eddie fired up the barbecue.
“Burgers okay? They’re kinda my specialty.”
I said, “Sure,” but when he came back out of the cottage, he had a half-empty package of hot dogs in his hand and a sheepish look on his face.
“Sorry. Pop must have been around. All I’ve got left is five hot dogs and half a loaf of raisin bread.”
“Sounds good to me.”
“Good?”
“Okay. Interesting.”
“I can work with interesting.”
That’s all there was to dinner—hot dogs on raisin bread and the Kool-Aid I made by chipping rock-hard sugar out of an old glass jar—but it managed to last until eleven o’clock. We just kept talking.
His mother’s name was Dorcas (a family name). I told him my mother’s name was Joyce, but only because he asked and that is Mrs. Welsh’s name.
The best thing that ever happened to him was his uncle letting him drive the car when he was ten. The best thing that ever happened to me was happening right that second, but I didn’t say that. I said it was the first time I went into town with my sisters for an ice cream.
“So what’s the worst thing that ever happened to you?” I said before he could ask for details.
“Easy. I was getting my tonsils out and woke up halfway through the operation with the doctor’s hands down my throat. They hadn’t given me enough anesthetic. To make it even worse, it was my fifth birthday.”
“When’s your birthday?” I said.
“I tell you this heartbreaking story and all you can say is when’s your birthday?”
“You were the one who said it happened on your birthday. It seemed impolite not to ask.”
“Fine. August 26. When’s yours?”
I wanted to lie, but I couldn’t come up with a single other plausible date, even with the hundreds I had to choose from. He discombobulated me.
“July 8.”
“That’s a week Wednesday.”
“Oh? Really? I kind of forgot all about it.” Ha. Hardly.
“They’re having a party behind the colony that night. We should go. Or we could do something special, just the two of us, if you prefer.”
I felt my face getting hot again, and he spared me by saying, “Okay. Your turn. What’s the worst thing that ever happened to you?”
I told him about our home burning down—but not the Home, just a home, a long time ago. I told him what it smelled like, how loud it was with the flames roaring and walls collapsing and my “sisters” crying and screaming and how, even over all that, I could hear my own breath and my own heart.
He said I should be a writer and took another shriveled hot dog off the grill—cold now—and ate it like a limp carrot stick. “That’s what I want to be. A writer.”
“You already are,” I said.
“A two-column article on the Buckminster stamp show is not writing.”
“It’s a start.”
He nodded like, Yeah, okay, but and began to talk about politics and world leaders and making a difference. That type of writing. He wasn’t his usual twinkly self, but I could tell this made him happy.
Somewhere along the line I realized I could barely see him anymore, just those teeth and his white T-shirt. It was dark and we’d missed the sunset and I hadn’t even noticed.
Early in the evening he’d propped a radio on the picnic table and fiddled with the antenna until he picked up a signal. Now that Beatles song came on again, his favorite one. This time I would have danced, but he went, “Yikes” and squinted to make out the time on his watch. “You’ve missed curfew.”
I didn’t even know I had a curfew. We hurried to the boat, then skipped across the calm surface of the lake. He drove past Miss Cameron’s, past the lodge and the little guest cabins along the shore. I thought he’d gone too far, but then he turned off the engine, and we glided into the next dock.
“My best customers,” he said, getting out of the boat. “They won’t mind. We’ll slip in the back way so you don’t get caught.”
He put his finger to his lips when we passed a cabin near the dock—the guy was apparently a light sleeper—and then we cut across a steep lawn to the woods.
He took my hand and led me down a path I couldn’t see. Everything was that floaty gray color of dreams. He helped me over fallen trees, held back branches and got me to the edge of the Feudal Colony.
“Know your way from here?”
He was going to let go of my hand.
“Yeah. I’m just over there. In the seamstress’s cabin. The little one behind the bushes. But you know that. So. Anyway.”
“Okay. Good.” He paused. “Listen. This might not be appropriate, but—”
I swallowed. I hoped my lips weren’t chapped, that I didn’t have raisins between my teeth, that I’d just naturally figure out how to do this.
“I could use a hand if you ever want to help out with my cottages again. I know you’re busy and everything, so—”
“No. No. Sure. That would be wonderful. I mean, fabulous.” Way too enthusiastic. Crazy-lady enthusiastic.
“Great. I’ll be in touch.”
“In touch.”
“Yes. In touch.”
There was probably something I was supposed to do at that point—some signal, some code—but I didn’t know what it was, so I said, “Thank you” and he said, “You’re welcome,” like it was a joke, and that seemed to be the end, so I said bye and he said bye and I let go of his hand and walked into the Feudal Colony alone.
I turned around to wave, but I couldn’t tell if he was gone or not. I ran back to my cabin as if Sara was there and waiting to hear all about it.
Eleven
I WAS ALMOST back to my cabin when Glennie stepped out of the Harem. The light above the door made her curlers sparkle. She had a pink cosmetic kit, slightly smaller than your average hockey bag, tucked under her arm.
“Oh, hey!” she said, bouncing over. “I’ve been thinking about you. What’s your name again?”
“Dot.”
“Right. Dot. I realize forgetting your name makes me sound somewhat insincere about wanting to see you—but banish that thought. Just the way I am. Slightly scatterbrained. All part of my enormous charm.” She took a bobby pin out of her hair and opened it with her teeth. “So what have you been up to?”
And because she was there and Sara wasn’t, I said, “I’ve been out with Eddie Nicholson.”
“I heard that from one of the dock boys—and he wasn’t too thrilled about it, I must say. Too bad. If Finlay wanted you, he should’ve moved faster. I told him that.” She rammed the bobby pin through a curler, almost dropping her cosmetic bag in the process. “Isn’t Eddie a charmer?”
My shoulders squeezed into my neck with the utter thrill of it. “Yes.”
“Did he take you for lunch in Hidden Bay?”
I nodded.
“In some swish boat?”
“Really nice boat.”
“Probably Ward’s. And then back to that cottage of his?”
I nodded again.
“Isn’t it appalling? But what can you do? Maman est disparue and papa as good as. But you no doubt heard all about that. Gunky’s ‘bad’ war, the leg blown to smithereens at—insert name of battle here—the subsequent drinking…”
“Gunky?” I said. “That’s his father’s name?”
“That’s what they call him. Must be short for Gordon or Gunga Din or something. I don’t know. Anyway”—she flapped a hand in front of her like a puppy begging—“that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about. I’ve been terrible, ignoring you like this. High time you got to know some of the youngsters around here—so I’m taking you to the Bye-Bye Baby party. And PS, Finlay will be there.”
“Who’s Finlay?”
“Finlay? Finlay Hart. The dock boy I told you about. Black hair. Imposing physique. Old money. He was ogling you from the dock today. You didn’t notice?”
“No.”
“Oh, he’ll be livid. Finlay is used to being noticed. So—Bye-Bye Baby? You’re on?”
“Ahh. When is it?” I’d never been to a party before.
“The Wednesday after next. Be there or be square, as they say.”
This was the party Eddie’d been talking about. I didn’t want to go. Not with all those strangers. It made me feel slightly sick. “I’ve got a lot of work to do. Mrs. Smees doesn’t—”
“You clearly don’t know what Bye-Bye Baby is.”
I put on an awkward semi-smile while I tried to come up with an answer.
“I knew it. Bye-Bye Baby—Triple B, if you will—is the annual commemoration of a bizarre occurrence that took place right here seventeen years ago.”
She looped her arm through mine. “Picture this. A girl and a boy. In the woods. After curfew. Doing the type of things hot-blooded teens are known to do after curfew. At some point in the proceedings, they come up for air, only to discover a baby. Lying on the ground.” She paused for effect. “A tiny, blood-soaked newborn baby.” She held up her hand. “No bigger than this.”
My jaw fell. My eyes popped.
“Oooh. What a gratifying reaction.”
“What happened to the baby?”
“That’s the thing. That’s why July 8, 1947, shall live on in infamy. The couple was understandably concerned to find a defenseless infant left in the woods. I mean, who knows what could have happened? A wild animal could have raised it as its own. One of the guests’ Yorkies could have trotted down to the patio with its tiny lifeless body clamped between its jaws. You can imagine how terrible that would be for business. So, being good Dunbrae employees, they attempted to rescue the child. They reached over to pick it up and—poof!”
I jumped.
“The baby disappeared right before their eyes. Now we honor this momentous occasion every year by returning to that very same spot and doing what those employees did so long ago: drinking ourselves stupid. I’d hate for you to miss it.”
She went on for a while in that same vein, then must have headed to the staff washroom. I don’t remember. I stood alone in the courtyard of the colony, my head buzzing.
An unusually tiny baby.
Born the very day I was born.
The mysterious disappearance.
The coat.
The Buckminster address.
I stumbled back to my cabin in a fog. I stood on the step to unlock the door and something crunched beneath my shoe. I flicked it away with my foot, figuring it was just a twig. I was too rattled by Glennie’s story to check.
I realize now, of course, it was probably the first of the bones.
Twelve
“WHAT’S THIS?”
Mrs. Smees spilled a pile of floral silk onto my table, then stood back, arms crossed, squinting at me.
“That’s Mrs. Illsley’s dress. I—”
“I know what it is. I just don’t know why you’d call it fixed.” She pulled a pencil out of her hair and poked at the dress. “That seam look fixed to you? Think that’s enough to keep them big hips of hers from busting out all over the family pew when she kneels down at St. Ninian’s this Sunday?”
“Oh. No, I must have just missed it. I—”
“Missed? I’m not paying you to miss things. My guess is you’re spending more time thinking about our young Mr. Nicholson than you are about your job.”
She was only partly right about Eddie. I’d barely slept the night before. I couldn’t get that story about the baby out of my head.
It couldn’t have been true. It was just a creepy story. A creepy made-up story like the ones Patsy used to tell us about the ghost of Mrs. Hazelton’s dead (and usually naked) lover roaming the halls of the Home every full moon and calling, calling, calling her name. We’d all scream and huddle together and make someone come to the bathroom with us for weeks afterward, despite knowing full well she’d concocted the whole thing. (Mrs. Hazelton with a lover? Even I couldn’t swallow that one.)
This was the same. I knew the story had to be nonsense, but I still couldn’t shake it. I’d tossed and turned all night, trying to make sense of it. All these years fantasizing about where I’d come from, I’d never considered anything mystical about my background. The parents I’d dreamed up may have been implausible, but they’d always been human.
Now two tiny babies, two mysteries, same date, both linked to Buckminster. Hard not to entertain the idea that there was some connection. The disappearing-before-their-very-eyes thing just kind of ruled out a human one. I wondered if the ladies’ auxiliary was going to tell me the spoon came from a witch’s coven or something.
I had another go at Mrs. Illsley’s dress and was careful to make sure everything was perfect this time. I just prayed Mr. Oliphant would hold off telling Mrs. Smees about the coffee incident until I was back in her good books again. I didn’t need two strikes against me.
I ate a sandwich at my table at lunchtime and didn’t take a break until Mrs. Smees said, “It’s quarter to six. Get going. Don’t hang around here, expecting me to pay you overtime.”
By the time I got to the colony, other kids were already there. Dock boys shooting their balled-up Dunbrae shirts into a hoop nailed to the side of the Meat Department, waitresses laughing and whispering on the steps of the Harem. I didn’t want to run into them. I slid in along the hedge to my cabin, then jumped back, hand over mouth.
Eddie was sitting on the steps behind the lilac bushes.
“You. Scared. Me.”
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to—which isn’t to
say I didn’t enjoy it immensely.”
“Did I do that toad thing again?”
“Toad? You? I have no idea of what you speak.” He patted the steps and slid over to make room next to him.
“What’s that in your hand?” I said.
He shrugged. “The remains of a bird, by the looks of it.” He tossed the bones into the bushes. “So, can I drag you out tonight? Take you to the falls maybe. You like fishing?”
“Yeah, I do. I’d really love to, but—” I couldn’t screw up at work again. I couldn’t lose my job. “I think I should just go to bed. Mrs. Smees got mad at me today.”
“That’s news?”
“Well, yeah. This time I deserved it. I was sloppy. Too tired, I guess. Didn’t sleep well last night.”
He leaned down and pulled my foot onto his knee. “How come?” He tied my shoe for me, then put it back down.
“Bad dreams,” I managed to say.
“Smees dreams?”
“No. I ran into Glennie after you took me home. She told me this ghost story, and I don’t know, it just kind of spooked me.”
“Excellent. I love ghost stories. Unburden yourself.” He bumped elbows with me, and the hairs on my arm all reached out for him. “Tell me.”
“You probably know it already. Bye-Bye Baby? Silly.”
“That’s not a ghost story. That actually happened.”
I looked at him out of the corner of my eye.
“I’m not kidding.” He raised his hand. “Scout’s honor.”
“A baby disappeared into thin air?”
“Well, okay. That part’s made up, but the rest is true.”
“How do you know? You wouldn’t have been around. You’re too young.”
“My babysitter.”
“You have a babysitter? Big boy like you?”
The elbow again. “When I was a kid, I mean. After Mum left. Dad needed someone to look after me while he was working. This college girl helped out. Sandra Smithers. She’s Conway now. Anyway, I heard her talking about the Bye-Bye Baby party one day with her friends—this would have been five or six years later, I guess—and I asked her what it was. That was the great thing about Sandra. You were cute enough, she’d tell you anything.”